Junior Level Champion: Hogwarts Years
by SilverLightning26
Summary: Sequel to Junior Level Champion. Harry's Hogwarts years told in a series of one-shots, one chapter per year.
1. Year 1

Hey all! Welcome to Junior Level Champion: Hogwarts Years. I know a lot of you were asking for a continuation of JLC, so this is my compromise. I don't have the time to devote to rewriting the whole Harry Potter series, since I'm in the middle of several other projects currently that need more attention than this does. But I do like the concept. So I'll be doing a one-shot for each of Harry's years at Hogwarts to set the tone, and you can use your imagination to fill in the rest.

To begin, here's Year 1, which picks up almost exactly where JLC leaves off.

Enjoy!

**JLC: Year 1**

It took nearly the first two months of term before it was established throughout the school that yes, Harry Evans, figure skater, and Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, were, in fact, one and the same person. The purebloods couldn't believe it, the half-bloods were a bit skeptical, and the muggleborns were thrilled.

Of course, once Harry's identity was established, it wasn't long before those who had never seen him in competition were all but demanding to see him skate. Harry was glad it wasn't winter yet, because he had enough to be getting on with, between all his new classes, Quidditch practice, the debacle with the troll and the three-headed dog, and keeping up with his training. With some help from his new friend, Hermione, Harry managed to keep on top of his schoolwork and try to find the spells Remus had mentioned that would allow him to create ice with magic. His friend Ron made sure he didn't work too hard.

By mid-October, just weeks before the first competition of the season, Harry finally mastered the _glacius_ spell, which created ice on a solid surface until dispelled with a _finite incantatum._ With the help of the resident pranksters, Fred and George, Harry found an empty classroom big enough to be a practice rink. At his request, they, and Ron and Hermione, kept this a secret from those fans and skeptics alike who wanted to see him in action.

At the end of October, just a few days before Halloween, Harry got permission from his head of house, Professor McGonagall, to leave Hogwarts for a weekend in the beginning of November to participate in his first competition of the season. Of course, Remus's letter to said professor insisting she allow him to go, and that he would provide supervision, helped greatly. Harry was excited to see his honorary uncle again, though they'd kept in touch through weekly, and sometimes daily, letters.

The morning of Harry's competition—a Sunday—Harry met Remus in Professor McGonagall's office. With a rare smile and a word of encouragement, McGonagall saw them off to the Leaky Cauldron. From there they would walk the few blocks to the arena—the same one Harry's competition had been in the previous year, when he'd met Remus for the first time.

Harry was a huge bundle of nerves, because his life was so different and yet so much the same. He hadn't had as much time to prepare, but the again, he had _magic_ on his side. Remembering all the practice sessions on the magically-iced floor of an empty classroom made Harry smile. For all the muggleborns who were rooting for him, for everyone else who doubted his ability, Harry steeled his resolve. Remus helped him style his hair and adjust his costume, and accompanied Harry to the edge of the rink as a coach or concerned parent might. While Remus was neither, his presence gave Harry the last push of confidence needed to skate out onto the ice when his name was called.

Harry's routine started out simple—a few double jumps and one double-single combination, a slowly building step sequence as the music grew in intensity. Then, at the climax, Harry's first triple axel, followed by a double Lutz and a double salchow in combination, and another double-single loop combination. Another short, high-energy step sequence and then, ending with a _bang_, a last triple axel and Harry spun to a stop, panting. The deafening cheers suddenly filled his ears, and Harry realized he had, once again, skated a perfect program.

Across the rink, he spotted Remus. His face was practically glowing with pride, and Harry grinned widely and waved before leaving the ice to hear his scores.

First place! He won! Of course, it was only the regional qualifiers, and his artistic score on the long program wasn't what he'd hoped for. But Harry had won! That gave him three gold medals!

When Harry stepped off the podium after the winners were announced, he found himself immediately swept into a hug that almost crushed his ribs. When he was released, his eyes widened to see Lynnette and her mum standing beside Remus.

"You did it, kid!" Lynnete exclaimed. "I know you said you'd compete despite going off to boarding school, but I didn't believe it until tonight. You not only competed—you won! Is your boarding school giving you secret training techniques or something?"

Harry grinned. "Something like that."

"Great job, Harry," Remus said with a grin, and Lynnette's mum nodded her agreement.

For a while the group chatted while Harry caught up with his friend and Remus got to know the people who'd been looking out for Harry while he couldn't. Finally, though, the late hour made itself known as Harry stifled a yawn.

"It was good to see you again, but I have to get back to school now. I have classes in the morning," he added with a scowl.

"Good to see you, too. We'll be at the next competition to cheer you on!"

Harry waved his thanks, then he and Remus departed. By the time they left the rink, Harry was drooping with exhaustion. So, chuckling, Remus grabbed his arm firmly, warned him about an unpleasant sensation to come, and then—they disappeared. Harry felt like he was being sucked through a straw, squished in from all sides. But as soon as it began, it was over. He stumbled, off-balance.

"How was your first experience apparating?" Remus asked.

"Ugh," Harry groaned, sore and tired and now slightly nauseous as well. Then he looked around and realized they had arrived at the Leaky Cauldron.

"I sent ahead telling Professor McGonagall to expect you. Good luck, cub. Keep up with your training and your studies, and I'll see you in January for the next round of competitions."

"Thanks, Remus," Harry said, tiredly but sincerely. Remus hugged him, then sent Harry ahead through the Floo.

Harry barely remembered getting from his head of house's office to his dorm room, but he made it somehow. And by lunchtime the next day, somehow everyone knew he'd gone to compete, and somehow, some way, a second-year Hufflepuff had gotten a hold of a magical photograph of one of his triple jumps and insisted Harry sign it. Harry agreed, but he insisted on having a copy, and that the boy not spread it around (he liked being recognized for his talent, but that didn't mean he wanted everyone staring at him—more than they already did, anyway). And by the end of the day, Harry Evans and Harry Potter were firmly entrenched as one and the same throughout the student body.

Now all Harry had to do was stay away from the three-headed dog on the third-floor corridor…


	2. Year 2

**JLC: Year 2**

_Ooh, watch out. The Heir of Slytherin isn't picky about who he kills._

_ Don't offend him; you'll be next._

_ He'll do you in just like he did Creevey._

_ Muggle-hater._

_ Murderer._

Two months. Ever since the dueling club, nasty rumors and fearful glances followed him everywhere he went. They'd only gotten worse after the attacks started. Harry had hoped coming back to Hogwarts would have been better. Ever since Uncle Vernon found out he was ice skating and not attending remedial summer classes…He probably still had the marks. He was too afraid to look. But Hogwarts was supposed to be his refuge. Not…this. It was just like primary school, where everyone either picked on him with Dudley or avoided him because of Dudley.

Here it was that prat Malfoy, but it was all the same. Everyone hated him, and he didn't even have his skating as a refuge because the Dursleys had taken away his skates—brand-new and everything, bought with his own hard-earned money saved for almost two years. They'd fit just right, and he'd been eager to break them in. But then that house elf had showed up, prompting them to search his room, and they'd found the box in the back of his wardrobe, the tags still on it. And then he'd been locked up until the Weasleys came and rescued him.

Biting his lip, Harry stared longingly out at the snow-covered grounds. The Black Lake was surely frozen over by now. Harry wished he was skating right now, not dodging glances in the corridor on the way to Potions.

"Just ignore them," Hermione chanted beside him, like she always did. Ron helped by giving suggestions for which hexes to use, even going so far as to offer to set the twins on the next person who said anything about Harry being the heir of Slytherin.

"Easy for you to say. They're not talking about _you_," Harry grumbled, but too quietly for her to hear.

Potions was terrible as always, thanks to the Slytherins making snide comments under their breath. Harry couldn't help stealing glances at the door, just waiting and wishing and _longing_ for class to be over. Because maybe he wouldn't be able to skate, but he could at least get away from all the stares for a while.

Finally,_ finally_, Professor Snape dismissed them. Harry made his excuses and escaped the castle.

Harry all but ran down the shore of the Black Lake, to the big boulder he'd found last year that was a good place to leave his boots and cloak while he skated. Now he sat on it, staring at the flat, snow-dusted surface of the lake, his lip trembling. _It wasn't fair_.

A while later, the sound of crunching footsteps reached Harry's ears. He ignored them, hoping whoever it was would leave him alone.

After a moment, the sound evolved into two distinct sets of footsteps. Familiar ones.

"Here you are, Harrikins."

"We thought you'd been buried in the snow,"

"Seeing how small you are," George finished as he and his twin took seats on either side of him.

Harry pouted. "I'm not _that_ small." He'd grown a good couple inches in the last year, putting him at a firmly average height for his age.

Fred and George chuckled. "Compared to us you are," Fred said, ruffling Harry's hair. He grimaced at the two fourth-years—who were both a full head taller than he was—and resumed staring at the lake.

"What's troubling our little prodigy?"

"Is there someone we need to prank?"

Harry sighed. There really was no getting rid of the Weasley twins, once they decided something was wrong. They'd either badger him until he told, or poke him in his ticklish spots until he laughed so hard he cried.

"The Dursleys took my skates," he said, hating how young and petulant he sounded.

"Ah."

"So the prodigy is grounded—figuratively speaking."

"Shall we share our secret, Fred?"

"But of course we should, George. He's an honorary Weasley, after all."

"What secret?" Harry asked.

"Just a little trick our mum uses."

"A swish of the wand,"  
"A snowy day,"

"And the pond out back."

"The perfect recipe for winter fun."

"On three?"

"One—"

"Two—"

"Three!" They said in unison. They waved their wands over each of Harry's boots, and to his astonishment, blades appeared, just like on his ice skates. Perfectly sized to his boots, toe pick and all. Harry's eyes went wide.

"I love magic!" he breathed. "Can you teach me?"

The Weasley twins shared a grin, then they looked back at Harry.

"Just one condition."

"Let us join you once in a while," Fred finished.

Harry nodded eagerly. "Teach me!"

George looked at his twin and pretended to wipe away tears. "Our little prodigy is growing up, Freddie."

"Soon he won't need us anymore."

Harry glared until they dropped the act, and then George smiled.

"It's really quite simple. It's just like the glacius charm you used last year."

"Except you shape the ice."

"You can make it anything you like, truly."

"The sky's the limit."

"And when you're done skating, simply say,"

"Finite incantatum," they finished in unison.

"You can try it on us, if you like."

Harry nodded, then pointed his wand at Fred's left boot. He imagined the shape of the skate blades, imagined magic shaping them and making them hard enough to support the fourth-year's bulk, and then he swished his wand determinedly.

It wasn't perfect, not at all. In fact, Harry cringed at the warped shape that resulted. But it was a start. With some additional coaching and after about half an hour, Harry finally got it perfect. Elated, he did it on Fred's other boot and both of George's. Then Harry led the way onto the ice.


	3. Year 3

Hi all! This is my little one-shot from Harry's third year in the JLC universe. Hope you enjoy!

**JLC: Year 3**

The black dog was there again. Harry had seen him—at least he imagined it was a him—every day for the last week, a black shadow against the snow-white grounds. He seemed to enjoy watching Harry practice his routines out on the frozen Black Lake. Harry had taken to calling him "Padfoot" in his head, after one of the names on the map the twins had given him last Hogsmeade weekend. Remus had mentioned the map, along with several pranks they'd pulled, in their frequent correspondence in the last few years. But Harry had only learned the identity of two of the Marauders—Remus confessed that his name was Moony and Harry's dad had been Prongs. That left "Padfoot" and "Wormtail" as mystery persons. Harry had asked, but Remus had changed the subject. But the big dog with matted black fur looked like a "Padfoot," so Harry had given him the nickname.

Like all the other times, Harry mostly ignored the dog while he changed his boots for skates and took off his cloak. To warm up, he took a few laps around the nearest part of the lake (which was still more than a kilometer wide). Then he started into his routine. It was more difficult than what he'd done so far. He'd been allowed to turn triples in competition for two years now, but using them in combinations and with the new step sequence he'd set up for himself made for a very tiring routine. He'd barely made it into fourth place at his last competition, winning more points for his step sequence than for actual jumps. And Harry was determined to take the platform next time. So he needed to build his stamina, so he could land all those difficult jumps at the end of his program with ease.

Some time later, when Harry's ears, nose, and cheeks had gone numb in the wind created by his own passage and his eyes were straining from the winter sunlight on the fresh snow, he finally took a break from his practice. He thought he might finish off with a lap or two around the entire lake—a circuit of roughly 5 kilometers—after his break. Breathing hard, Harry skated to the edge of the lake where he'd left his boots and cloak and water bottle—only to find that same black dog sitting just feet away from his things.

Harry paused, cautious. He'd never tried to approach the dog before, though the last two days he'd given it a smile and a wave in greeting before beginning his practice. The dog gave him a sideways look, almost as if confirming he was the same person off the ice as he was on it. Harry couldn't help a smile at the curious and somehow proud look in the dog's grey eyes.

"Hi there. Did you enjoy the show?" Harry asked, keeping his voice low.

The dog barked softly, as if agreeing. Harry smiled again as he stepped off the ice.

"Can I have my water bottle, boy?"

The dog barked again and moved a little to the left, so Harry could reach for the bottle without worrying about startling him. He took a long drink, then set the bottle down. Then, hesitantly, he reached a hand out toward the dog.

"Here, boy. Can I pet you?"

The dog hesitated, then, very slowly, moved forward until his nose bumped Harry's fingers.

"Good boy, Padfoot," Harry murmured.

The dog suddenly went very still, staring at Harry in what he could only describe as shock. Harry withdrew slowly.

"I heard the name somewhere and thought it suited you. Do you not like it?"

The dog seemed to relax. In fact, if Harry could say so, it almost looked like he sighed in relief. A distinctly non dog-like action. Then the dog licked Harry's hand and gave him a doggy-grin, and Harry laughed.

"Okay, boy. I need to finish my practice before it gets dark. So take care, Padfoot," Harry said. He took another swig of his water bottle, patted the dog on the head, and went back to the ice.

The dog kept coming after that. Once he even tried to chase Harry onto the ice during his warm-up laps, only to slip and go sprawling and spinning over the ice with a very dog-like yelp of surprise that had Harry in stitches for some minutes. But the more Harry observed, the less like a dog he seemed. Add that to the fact that the dog still stiffened in suspicion and maybe even fear every time Harry called him Padfoot, and Harry started to wonder if there wasn't more to it than it seemed. So Harry started asking the dog questions.

He kept them simple at first, throwaway comments forgotten with the wind: Is Padfoot your real name from your last owner? Did you run away? Or were you abandoned? Harry never expected a real answer, but he watched the dog's reactions. He'd gotten very good at reading human reactions—growing up with the Dursleys taught one to always be alert—and he thought they might apply to a dog, too. Especially if the dog in question wasn't entirely a dog.

After a few weeks, though, as Christmas drew nearer, Harry started asking more particular questions: What was my godfather like? Were he and my dad best friends? What would you do if a friend betrayed you? How far would you go to keep a secret?

Harry also asked Remus and other adults similar questions, looking for clues in the evasive answers he got. No one seemed to want to tell him anything (a fact Harry was becoming _very_ frustrated with). If Harry hadn't accidentally overheard several of his professors and Minister Fudge in the Three Broomsticks the last Hogsmeade weekend before Christmas (two weeks after Harry's first official encounter with the dog) he still wouldn't know the story of how his parents had been betrayed and why Sirius Black was apparently after him (as he'd been told repeatedly since the beginning of first term).

As he pondered the stories he'd heard, though, both told directly and overheard, Harry began to suspect that something didn't add up. If Sirius Black really was the godfather Remus kept talking about in such bittersweet tones (and not Peter Pettigrew like Harry had suspected before), and he'd really been such good friends with Harry's dad, then why would he betray his best friend so thoroughly? And if Sirius Black were really after him, why had he not taken advantage of all the time Harry spent on the Black Lake practicing alone? Why go after Ron and not Harry, if he was going to all the trouble of breaking into the Gryffindor dorms anyway?

And, last but not least, if the dog that kept vising Harry, and that seemed so friendly and yet strangely, and humanly, overprotective (all but chasing Harry back inside the few times he stayed out past dark) was an animagus and his godfather, and therefore Sirius Black, why did he not kill or capture Harry during all their time together, but rather watched him practice with pride and an unusual level of concern every time he missed one of his landings?

Finally Harry decided: he'd confront them all. First the dog, and then Remus. Because Remus wouldn't believe anything without proof, and if Harry told Remus about the dog first, then Remus would ban him from practicing outside (he'd seemed rather jumpy ever since Harry had mentioned seeing a big black dog right before falling from his broom in the first Quidditch match of the season). If Harry was right, and Sirius was, at the very least, not trying to kill him, he could then find out the rest of the story. If he was wrong…but Harry's gut was telling him Sirius was at least not out to get him, and Harry's gut was never wrong.

Finally, the day before Christmas, Harry was out on the lake, finishing up his usual practice session. The dog was watching as usual, with an unusually high level of excitement. Perhaps because Harry had finally completed his program without falling _or_ cutting a jump short for the first time. He could now land a triple-triple combination with his two favorite jumps—a triple loop and a triple salchow. Very difficult, and sure to land him on the platform at least in the competition the week after Christmas.

Winded, flushed, and excited, Harry skated two cool-down laps, then collapsed into the snow on the edge of the lake. It was well-trampled now, from all of Harry's coming and going. Padfoot—Harry was sure it was Padfoot of the Marauder's Map now—barked happily and licked Harry's cold, sweaty face. Harry laughed and pushed him away, then took a moment to catch his breath.

"Do you ever wish you could be human again?" Harry asked, all too innocently. The dog barked in agreement, then made a huffing sound that might have been a gasp. Harry turned to face the dog head-on.

"You're human, aren't you? An animagus."

Padfoot growled uncomfortably.

"I won't tell. It's just…you act too human sometimes to be a real dog."

There was a long silence. Then, slowly, Padfoot nodded.

"Don't run away when I ask the next question, please. I don't want anyone in trouble; I just want answers. Promise?"

Slowly, grey eyes wide and cautious, Padfoot nodded once more.

"Are you Sirius Black?"

Another long, long silence. Harry thought he might not answer. Then, as if in slow motion, the black dog beside him shimmered, elongated, and transformed into a man with shoulder-length, wild black hair, fearful eyes, thin robes, and a skeletal frame.

"Harry—" his voice was thick and hoarse.

Harry threw his winter cloak at him, using it as a distraction so he could get his bearings. His heart was hammering. Suspecting it was one thing, but seeing it confirmed before his eyes, with the same image of the mad, haunted, man whose photo had been plastered all over the papers for six months, was something else entirely. Harry wasn't sure if he should laugh and hug him, or rage and scream for what he allegedly did.

What _did_ happen, however, Harry had never expected. Hot tears burned his eyes, choked his voice, and rendered him completely unable to speak for a long moment.

"H-Harry?" Black asked, suddenly concerned.

Harry choked on a laugh. "I thought I was prepared. I guess not." He blinked hard. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?"

"Harry?"

Harry finally turned to face the man, now wrapped (gratefully) in Harry's winter cloak. It was too small for his adult frame, and looked rather pathetic wrapped around his shoulders like one of Trelawney's shawls.

"I had to put all the pieces together myself," Harry began, his voice not entirely steady. "Remus told me of four friends, but he only ever told me the names of two—himself, and my dad. He never told me what my godfather's name was, only that I had one, only he was unavailable after my parents died. Not even McGonagall wanted to talk to me about them; I had to overhear a conversation in Hogsmeade to even know my parents had been betrayed before they were killed."

Harry's voice cracked. He blinked hard again and looked the other man in the eye.

"Promise me you'll tell me the whole story? You won't leave anything out just because I'm still a kid? Just because it might hurt me?"

Black's eyes were also unusually wet. "I promise." And then, while they sat shivering in the snow in the fading light on Christmas Eve, Harry listened to the whole story. Nothing was filtered, nothing held back. Names were given, even if they were meaningless to Harry. A story of betrayal and vengeance, of grief and power, trickery and injustice. By the end, Harry's cheeks were frozen with tears, and Sirius—he insisted Harry call him Sirius—looked ten years younger, as though an immense load had been lifted off his shoulders.

"And you're close to Remus, right? Do you think you can convince him to at least hear me out?"

"I'll try my best. But he's stubborn, even if he knows he's wrong."

"That's all I can ask for." Sirius then pulled Harry into a hug. "By the way? I'm so proud of you," he murmured.

Harry hugged him back hard. And his little family grew by one.


	4. Year 4

**JLC: Year 4**

_Damn tournament_. Harry grimaced and got to his feet. Again. Brushing snow off his bottom, he started again. Harry was lucky he had pre-qualified for the second round of competition, because he wouldn't have made it to the first round anyway. Not only had it been the same day as the first task, but Harry had been so busy figuring out how to _stay alive_ that he didn't even have time to practice. He was still in shape thanks only to his habit of running and exercising early every morning, and occasionally he'd stolen into an empty classroom and turned it into an ice rink by virtue of a _glacius _charm.

Of course, it didn't help his mood that the whole school hated him, and the times he did manage to "disappear" to practice they accused him of cheating, or collaborating with someone else in secret to give himself an advantage. If it weren't for the threat of losing his magic hanging over his head, and Hermione and the Weasley twins (Ron could go jump in the Black Lake for all he cared), Harry might have just left Hogwarts altogether, and just stuck with his skating. Sirius would have been thrilled, and Harry wouldn't have to deal with everyone accusing him of being troubled, mad, weepy and pathetic.

Right now, though, Harry would rather take on the dragon again. He skated into the takeoff position for his triple axel jump—one of his favorites. He jumped, but not quite high enough. He managed two and a half rotations, then his feet got tangled and he went down again, hard. Harry growled in frustration. All his practices lately had been like this—less than productive, and with more spills and missteps than he'd ever had since he first set foot on the ice more than six years ago. His hands were scraped raw and his hips and backside were one giant bruise. But at least the Black Lake was good for something, now that it was frozen, instead of a looming reminder of the second task.

It was all because of this damn tournament. He never wanted to be in it to begin with, and now he was fighting for his life while being ostracized by practically the whole school. Was it really any wonder that he couldn't focus?

For a while, Harry just lay there on the ice, cold seeping through his clothes while he stared at the grey winter sky and wondered if it was even worth getting up again.

After a few moments, though, Harry felt his muscles locking up. He knew from experience that if he let that happen, he wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow—as amazing as magic was, it still had no cure for sore, abused muscles. So, with a sigh, Harry got back up, grimacing.

But once he was standing again, he couldn't just give up. So he started into his step sequence for the upcoming competition. It started out well. But then he missed the footing into his spread eagle, messed up a _sit-spin_ of all things, and it just got worse from there. His form was falling apart—he could feel it. Then his skate skipped and caught on an unexpected rough patch on the ice and Harry went down—again.

Now blinking back tears of frustration and pain (he'd landed hard on his already-bruised hip), Harry got to his feet and limped clumsily back to shore. He traded his skates for winter boots and dutifully did his cool-down stretches. He was glad no one had cared to watch this time (until this year, he often had a small crowd of admirers gathered near the shore while he practiced who tried to act uninterested). He was glad, because it meant there was no one around to see his shoulders shaking, or hear his uneven breaths.

Before Harry knew it, it was the day of the second round of competition. No one would have let him leave the castle, so he snuck out to Hogsmeade the way he'd done for his competitions all last year, when they'd all thought Sirius was out to get him. It was a Saturday, but Harry had asked the Weasley twins to cover for him if anyone noticed him missing. The bartender at the Three Broomsticks gave him a wink and wished him luck as he took the Floo to Kings Cross. He'd tried the Leaky Cauldron once last year, and had instantly been swarmed with admirers and overly concerned strangers. Kings Cross was only a few minutes farther than the Leaky Cauldron to the rink anyway.

There was the usual tension in the air as Harry entered the rink and joined the other skaters getting ready. But his usual nerves were absent, and that made him slightly anxious. Harry had always considered it a good thing to be a little nervous before a performance (or a Quidditch match). It kept him on his toes and ensured he didn't get overconfident or distracted. And Harry _should_ have felt nervous—he'd never entered a competition more unprepared to compete. His focus was fragmented at best, and he'd only managed to skate his whole program flawlessly maybe three times, and that only in the last two weeks.

Harry went through the motions of registering, changing, and warming up on and off the ice. He tried to summon some enthusiasm, some hint of the passion he had for skating. But to no avail. Thoughts of the Triwizard Tournament kept creeping in, worries about the next task (which was one week away), about the next slanderous article Rita Skeeter would write about him, irritation at the attitude of the Hogwarts students toward him (it had only slightly improved after the dragons), and a dozen other things stole his focus.

When Harry forced his thoughts back to the imminent competition, he just felt…empty. Burned-out, even, like it was hardly worth the effort. And he felt alone. Unlike most of his other competitions, there was no one in the stands specifically for him today (his fans didn't count). Usually Sirius or Remus or both were able to make it, but that night was the full moon, and the competition started at six—after sundown. And Sirius was no doubt keeping Remus company.

But there was no use dwelling on all that now. Harry kept his body warm while the first few skaters performed, but his movements had a sort of nervous energy to them.

"And our next skater is Harry Evans, Surrey."

The nerves hit him all at once as Harry removed his sweatshirt with unsteady hands and stood at the edge of the rink. His stomach tied itself up in knots and all the missed jumps and turns were suddenly all he could think about. It was almost crippling in its intensity. Harry took several deep, slow breaths, let out the last in a long exhale, then he skated onto the ice.

The first half of his program was rough. He didn't fall or fail to complete his jumps. But his form was not pretty—he could feel it. Only sheer force of will kept him on his feet and moving. He nearly forgot his combination jump right before his step sequence, which made it look forced. Gritting his teeth in frustration, Harry began the step sequence. Turns, twists, a flying sit-spin (a recent accomplishment Harry _had_ been excited to show off). But then he overshot the arc on his spread eagle, collided with the wall, and fell hard.

Sheer stubbornness got Harry back on his feet. He finished his step sequence and went into the takeoff of the last series of jumps. But he didn't get enough height on his jump and barely landed his triple. The same thing happened again, but this time it turned into a double because he wasn't moving fast enough to get all three rotations in.

Harry suddenly became hyper-aware of the crowd, of their gasps of dismay and the occasional boo as he missed jump after jump. His next triple-double combination turned into a double-single, and he nearly missed the landing.

Gritting his teeth, Harry turned his last two jumps into combination jumps to make up the points he'd lost. The first jump of the combination he landed well. The second one he missed the landing and fell hard. But at least he'd managed all three rotations. Harry added an extra flourish to build up speed, then landed a triple axel and a double Lutz. The landing was rough, but he stayed on his feet. Then he finished with a final spin into a kneeling pose to end.

To halfhearted cheers and much murmuring, Harry skated off the ice, limping, biting his lip, trying to shut out the commentary— "What's happened to Harry Evans, I wonder? That was the roughest performance I've ever seen"—while his scores came in.

Moments later, his results were announced. His technical score—high. Thanks to his added combinations at the very end. His artistic score—Harry winced. A personal record. A record low, that is. He barely scraped into fourth place to move to the next round of competition, his technical ability saving him. But he hadn't gotten lower than second in two years, and only once before had he ended up in fourth when all the scores were tallied.

Harry stayed just long enough to fulfill obligations, then he slipped out alone into the dark London streets. All the way back to Kings Cross and through the Floo, he was biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. He waved his thanks to the bartender at the Three Broomsticks, stole into Honeydukes and bought himself a huge bar of his favorite chocolate flavor in consolation, then descended into the basement and to the secret passageway.

Harry kept it together almost all the way back to the castle. Then the weight of his failure and the pressure of the tournament finally overwhelmed him. He let himself fall to his knees in the dusty corridor and the tears he'd been holding back finally broke free.

After that, Harry threw himself into his schoolwork and preparing for the next tasks of the tournament. He frequently fell asleep in the common room long after everyone had gone to bed, surrounded by reference texts and parchments of notes. Then he'd wake before everyone else and exhaust himself training for the next round of competition. Then he'd do it all over again.

The second task went as well as could be expected, though whichever daft berk thought Ron was the one he'd miss the most deserved a good knock on the head with the stupid golden egg. He'd apologized for his attitude after the first task, but stayed distant as Harry ran himself into the ground in training. Even Hermione had backed off after he'd snapped at her for asking if his skating was worth all the effort he was putting in when he had "more important things to worry about."

After the second task, Harry devoted all his attention to preparing for the third task. Only sheer determination got Harry through the finals for the junior championship in March and by some miracle he took silver overall. Then it was time for the third task.

It was a nightmare. Far worse than Harry could have ever imagined. Moody an imposter, Voldemort's return and the subsequent duel, and—worst of all—Cedric's _meaningless_ death. Harry honestly wasn't sure how he managed to finish out the term without breaking down or blowing up. For the first time, Harry was _almost _looking forward to going back to the Dursleys, if only because there were never any wildcards or real threats there (however much Uncle Vernon liked to bluster).

But on top of all of it, Harry had been invited to a special summer exhibition as the second-place champion for two years running, which would happen just a week after returning from school. The offer had come before the final task, and Harry had accepted, thinking it would take his mind off things. Now, he hoped it would at least distract him, because he didn't have the heart to cancel.

The day of the exhibition skate dawned hot and bright. Harry slipped away from the Dursleys without much trouble, seeing as they'd banished him outside anyway, and took a regular bus to the same rink he'd been competing in all year. He would skate his program from the season that had just ended, simply because he didn't have time (or motivation) to come up with something new just yet. But Harry was anxious about the whole thing. The last week he'd been running on barely five hours of sleep a night while still dutifully maintaining his workout routine, and that was without the nightmares.

The good news was that both Sirius and Remus would be there cheering for him. But when Harry arrived at the rink, he was swarmed by press and fans alike, and was barely able to greet his godfather and surrogate uncle before being caught up in it all.

Harry eventually made his excuses and headed for the locker room. He got changed mechanically and put on his skates for his warmup on the ice. Then he waited to be called.

"And now we have Harry Evans, fourteen-year-old two-time silver medalist for the Junior Division of the British National Skating Competition."

A round of cheers greeted Harry as he skated onto the ice. He stood still for a moment, suddenly paralyzed. Not until his music came on did Harry even move. And then his first movements were stiff.

Harry started slowly into his routine, but he felt completely detached, as if he were watching himself on the telly. Muscle memory then took over, and though his body completed every movement perfectly, all Harry could see and feel were past memories. Every second of his routine was heavily steeped in failure and despair, and at the moment Harry simply could not differentiate his movements from those memories. Every single second weighed on him, dragged him down as if his skates were made of lead. Every step left a piece of himself behind, shedding his innocence like a snake shedding its skin. Every step left him a little harder, a little stronger, a little older, but no less scarred.

Before he knew it, he had landed his last jump and it was over. Harry had, once again, skated a flawless program. But the cheers reached him as if from underwater, distant and muted by a fog of memory. Even the commentary following his performance came to him from a long way away.

"And Harry Evans has done it again! After a rough start to the season, and frankly the roughest program we've seen that still scored high enough to advance, he has given us the most flawless and moving performance of his career!"

Was it that moving? He'd felt like a robot. It wasn't until he stepped off the ice that Harry realized he was crying, silent tears staining his cheeks like the scars that marred his body. He'd left something of himself behind on the ice, something that left him feeling bereft, jaded, and alone.

Footsteps approaching forced Harry to raise his head. Sirius and Remus were there, in the narrow pass between the rink entrance and the locker rooms—the only place the press and fans alike were not allowed to be. Harry drew closer, stumbling a little in his skates on solid ground. Then he tripped and pitched forward, right into his godfather's arms.

Sirius held him tight, grounding him. And Remus joined the hug from behind, sheltering him. Reminding him that he wasn't alone. And it was okay to be scarred, because he was still loved. And Harry's tears flowed faster, but he remained silent. And when he walked out of the rink with Sirius and Remus on either side, with their arms around his shoulders, Harry finally felt safe enough to leave the last of his old skin behind.


	5. Year 5

Harry took the year off from competition. When he made that announcement at the end of a scheduled interview with the (muggle) press halfway through July, there was an uproar. How could the prodigy take a year off? The public wouldn't stand for it! But Harry was firm, and gave no further explanation.

In truth, Harry wasn't sure he could stand another year like last year. Sure, there wouldn't be a tournament he was forced to compete in, but he was now the target of bad press in both worlds. And with the dementor incident and the subsequent hearing, not to mention the complete and utter lack of communication from his friends, Harry was sure he would be facing another rough year. Adding his skating competitions to that—which competition was getting fiercer, now that Harry, finally fifteen, was officially eligible to participate in the senior division—and it was bound to be too much to handle.

Harry's first night back at Hogwarts told him he'd made the right decision. The same ministry hag who had made his trial so difficult was now his Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. And with her poking her hideously pink nose everywhere, there was no way he'd manage to leave school for the competitions anyway. He'd be hard-pressed to even find a decent place to practice. And then, after his first Quidditch game, Malfoy paved the way to make this year the most miserable yet. The stupid git insulting him along with the Weasleys and getting the Umbitch involved resulted in Harry being banned completely from playing Quidditch—his last escape. Only the fact that the Weasley twins shared his fate made it slightly bearable. That, and the DA.

But then it was Christmastime. And the dream happened. Only it wasn't a dream; it was a vision. The night before he and the Weasleys were to leave Hogwarts for the holidays, he'd had the terrible experience of witnessing—maybe causing? —the nearly fatal attack on Mr. Weasley by a giant snake. And the promise of Occlumency lessons with _Snape_ of all people hanging over him when the holidays were over did not make the holidays any more pleasant. Throw in his usual nightmares of the graveyard, and unsettling dreams of a dark corridor, and it was no wonder he eventually had had enough.

After Christmas but before New Year's, approximately a week before they returned to Hogwarts, Harry plotted with the Weasley twins an escape to the local ice rink to get away from it all, if only for a few hours. They were only too happy to oblige. With their mum always on their backs about their joke products, Mr. Weasley's slow recovery, Sirius's mood going down the drain with the impending return of the children to Hogwarts, and the general gloomy atmosphere at the old house gave them plenty of reasons to want to escape for a while. Remus unfortunately caught wind of their plot—but instead of reprimanding them, he promised to distract Sirius and Molly (and Ron and Ginny) when the moment came.

Two days before New Year's, they made their escape. It was the most stealthy escape the Weasley twins had probably ever done, due to the distinct lack of fireworks or dung bombs, but to Harry it was second nature. The Dursleys still forbade him from skating, but as they were only too happy to have him out of the house, it had become quite simple for Harry to slip out of the house and catch the bus to the neighboring town and its ice rink.

After slipping out a window on the second floor and climbing down the wall, Harry led Fred and George on a short tour of London during the twenty-minute walk to the rink. He carried his own skates in his sports bag and some extra muggle money for the twins to rent their own. It was midmorning on a weekday, and it was the holidays, and thus the rink was unlikely to have many patrons. They were appropriately disguised as an anonymous group of friends hanging out in town during the holidays. A few charms gave Harry auburn hair and the twins an unremarkable brown, faded their freckles and other distinguishing characteristics (like Harry's scar), and they were dressed in common muggle clothing. Their wands were up their sleeve as a precaution, but it was unlikely they would face any danger.

Arriving at the rink, Harry helped the twins rent a pair of skates each and explained how a public rink worked. There were only about a dozen other people there—a few couples, a small family with younger children, and a few teenagers like themselves. So they pretty much had free reign on the rink. Since it was public skating time, Harry couldn't do any of his jumps. But he was more than happy to skate in leisurely figure-eights while the twins followed with significantly less grace.

After an hour or so, the other patrons left and no one else came. So Harry secured permission from the man at the front desk to do a few jumps (after swearing up and down he knew what he was doing). The twins sat on the wall ringing the ice to watch, cheering obnoxiously. Harry couldn't help but smile as he skated into his takeoff. His first jump was a little rough, but then he hadn't seriously practiced in three months. But after landing a few singles comfortably, Harry did a few doubles and combinations. He was reluctant to do any of his triples, unwilling to show off his skill and draw unwanted attention to himself. And while he'd practiced a few quadruple jumps, he wasn't confident enough to attempt them on a whim. And that was sure to draw attention to him.

After another forty minutes or so, Harry finally took a break. He'd forgotten how good it felt to be on the ice. Almost as good as flying. He treated Fred and George to some lunch from the concession stand, laughing as they tried hot dogs for the first time and generally having a good time. But as it grew later into the afternoon, their mood took a downturn at the prospect of having to return to Grim Old Place (as the twins coined it).

"One last turn around the ice?" George suggested.

"Maybe Harrikins can teach us one of his jumps," Fred suggested with a grin.

Harry shrugged. The rink was empty again; though a few people had come during their break, they were now nowhere to be seen. "Sure. But if you crack your head or break an ankle, it's not my fault."

Fred and George grinned identically. "Bring it on," they said in unison.

Harry smiled a little and led the way back onto the ice. He demonstrated a few times, explaining each step from takeoff to landing, and coached them through the process twice. He also teasingly suggested they cast a cushioning charm for their landing, because they were sure to land on their backsides.

Fred tried first, though he seemed unusually nervous. His first attempt barely got him off the ground, let alone gave him time to twirl. He did manage to land without falling, though.

"You have to mean it when you kick off," Harry said.

"Yeah. Pretend the ground is Umbitch's face." George suggested straight-faced.

They all cracked a grin and Fred tried again. This time he managed it. He wobbled on the landing, but got a full rotation in.

"No wonder you love skating so much," Fred marveled as he made room for George. "It really does feel like flying."

George completed his attempt as well. The takeoff and rotation were spot-on, but his landing was a mess. They all had a good laugh at his expense, then George agreed with his twin.

"It really is like flying. Just imagine being in the air for the triple jump."

Harry actually smiled. "It feels great."

"Go for it. You know you want to," Fred teased.

"Go jump your favorite triple for us—"

"Your devoted and loving fans."

"Stick it to Umbitch."

"She can take your broom away,"

"But she can't stop you from flying," George finished.

Harry grinned and agreed. He took a long loop around the rink to build up speed, whizzed past Fred and George's grinning faces, then took to the air. But it wasn't a triple he landed. It was a quadruple. A quadruple axel, to be precise. He seemed to hang in the air, spinning endlessly. Flying.


	6. Year 6

Sirius was gone.

Harry still couldn't wrap his head around it. His godfather was no longer there to talk to, joke with, pull pranks on, or to cheer him on at the rink. And Harry was, frankly, exhausted. No matter how much sleep he got (which was quite a lot, since for the first week or two back at Privet Drive, he did nothing but sleep), he still felt tired. He felt no motivation to do anything at all. He seriously considered quitting skating altogether. He'd already taken a year off, and now with Sirius gone and Voldemort on the rise, he had plenty of reasons to quit.

But a talk with Remus a few weeks after term ended made him reconsider. They had met in a park near Privet Drive, a safely neutral zone, and Harry had unloaded all his troubles onto his surrogate uncle (though not without significant prodding and coaxing). And finally, Remus convinced Harry to go to the rink one last time and skate for a bit, and then make his decision.

So, the pair took a bus to the rink in the neighboring town where Harry always practiced during the summers. Remus took great pleasure in meeting Lynnette and her mum, who had coached Harry up until fourth year. And then Remus coaxed Harry onto the ice.

With great reluctance, Harry laced up his skates and removed the blade guards on his well-worn and well-loved skates. Then, with an ache in his chest, Harry stepped onto the ice.

He did a few easy laps, reminding himself how it felt to skate. He did a few movements from his previous step sequences, his feet not leaving the ground. His feet just felt too heavy. But as he gained speed and the faces watching him turned into a blur, he felt something. A tiny spark deep in his chest.

Harry remembered his first time on the ice, his very first competition. His timid confidence, the secret smile knowing he was reaping the rewards of years of hard work. The cold air rushing past his face, stinging his eyes. Harry blinked hard, his vision suddenly blurry.

Harry built up more speed, did a simple leap. And that tiny spark grew brighter. A rush in his stomach, his breath catching in his chest. He turned, skated backward, building speed, and—jump! He spun three times easily, landed perfectly. It felt like second nature, that triple loop. A jump he had only successfully landed a handful of times, over a year ago.

The cold air stung as Harry skated into the takeoff of his triple axel. His eyes burned. And he remembered why he'd started. In that very first competition, one of the first things he'd ever said to the press, his reason for skating: "I want to honor my parents with my skating."

And now Harry had one more person to honor every time he took to the ice.

Two more, Harry amended as he skated past Remus again and glimpsed his wet smile. And it would be worth all the danger, all the hard work, all the pain, to honor those who couldn't be with him.


	7. Year 7

With the war finally over, Harry legally changed his name to Harry Potter-Evans, in the wizarding world and in the muggle world. It hadn't precisely been common knowledge that Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, was also Harry Evans, champion figure skater. Sure, all his Hogwarts classmates knew he was a skater, but no one except the muggle-born students who followed the sport or knew someone who did ever made the connection to the world-famous champion. But with the name change, _everyone_ suddenly knew. But Harry had sworn to honor his parents and godfather with his skating, and now he had a list of other people to honor with it. His skating had given him something to cling to when everything else seemed dark. At times, during that year of horcrux hunting, it had been the _only_ light he could see. Now, he wanted to give others the same hope. If Harry Potter, hero of the wizarding world, could move on, then so could they.

Harry titled his program for the 1998-1999 competition year "Phoenix." The music he chose was the most hauntingly beautiful instrumental score he could find. His costume was a dull grey and black bodysuit until a costume change mid-program, which was a startling, eye-catching array of golds and reds like feathers, fanning out like flaming wings behind him. It was no coincidence that it closely resembled the very first costume Harry had ever worn in competition.

Waiting in the wings before his long program, Harry was nervous. And it hurt that neither Sirius nor Remus was there to wave him off like they had almost every year from the beginning. But in their place were Ron and Hermione. Neither of them had ever seen any of his competitions, only his practice sessions, either on the Black Lake or on the occasional lake or pond they camped by during their year in self-inflicted exile. Harry had pulled some strings to allow them anywhere near the locker room, seeing as they were neither family nor his coach. Harry also knew that, somewhere in the stands, the rest of the Weasleys, Andromeda, and Teddy would be watching.

Somehow, that only made Harry more nervous.

"You're going to do great, Harry," Hermione said encouragingly.

"Yeah. You're the youngest seeker in Hogwarts history, the boy-who-lived-twice, _and_ a world champion. Is there anything you _can't_ do?" Ron teased.

"Calm my nerves," Harry said sheepishly. He fiddled nervously with the zipper of his jacket.

"Our next competitor is Harry Potter-Evans, from Little Whinging, Surrey!"

"Well, here I go." Harry handed off his blade guards to Ron and Hermione took his jacket.

"You got this."

"Go get 'em."

Harry smiled nervously, took a deep breath, then walked out onto the ice.

The music started slow, but with a heavy downbeat a few bars in. Harry quickly sped around the ice, building speed, and went straight into a quadruple loop. He landed it perfectly in time with the downbeat to stunned gasps from the crowd, then dramatically stooped to one knee into a planned, controlled spin-out, letting out a breath of relief. The music turned low and haunting and Harry began his step sequence. They were slow, full of deliberate mistakes and halfhearted spins. Though he was light on his feet, he gave the impression of being glued to the ice or plowing through deep snow.

Slowly, gradually, he gained ground. He did a flying sit-spin, a single flip and a single salchow. Then a double loop, followed by another short step sequence: sections of the first repeated but without the deliberate mistakes. Then the music tempo increased, a determined cast to the eerie notes. Harry landed a double flip, a double axel, then a double-triple combo in quick succession. The step sequence repeated, the same as before but with a little extra flair. Then the climax arrived.

Just as the music reached a peak, Harry turned, skated backward, building speed, then launched into a triple-quad combo. Just as he reached the apex of the quad, Harry triggered the costume change. He landed perfectly, streamers of red and gold flying out behind him like flames as the crowd gasped.

Then Harry went all-out. For the last minute and a half of his program, he showed off all his favorite jumps and combos, his skates seeming to scarcely touch the ground. Though he was breathing heavily, a wide grin split his face. His last jump was the same quadruple loop from the beginning, executed so perfectly Harry seemed to hover in the air, spinning endlessly. He landed with an elegant flourish, arms spread wide, and gradually came to a stop.

The entire stadium erupted.

"I think we have our winner!" The commentator had to shout to be heard over the noise. "Those deliberate mistakes at the beginning caused some docked points on the technical side, but our young champion has earned them back tenfold with those incredible jumps! And the mid-jump costume change was just stunning! I think we can all see why young Harry Potter-Evans has titled his program 'Phoenix.' We have seen a champion reborn!"

A/N: And that's a wrap! I didn't feel the need to expand these into a full story, as I don't feel like rewriting seven books with very minor changes. Hopefully these snapshots filled that need, however; I certainly had fun writing them. I hope you enjoyed!


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